


15 Minutes From Hell

by wook77



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wook77/pseuds/wook77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since they took care of Yakavetta, they've been slipsliding until Murphy feels like their fifteen minutes from hell. Fifteen minutes and one confession and it's not the place either Connor or he should be. Something's gotta give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	15 Minutes From Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Written for at Yuletide 2008. Beta'd by freckles42 and anasuede. Any and all remaining mistakes are my own. Originally posted [here](http://wook77.livejournal.com/176080.html). FYI - tons of Catholic imagery/mentions.

Where the fuck is God when you need Him? That's what Murphy wants to know. Always before, Murph would fall to his knees, cross himself – thumb and forefinger tracing his forehead, his heart, left breast, right breast – and pray and the Lord would answer. But now, in his moment of need, Murphy can't hear the voice of God and wonders if maybe it's because some sins just can't be forgiven. 

They're not fucking stupid and they're sure as shit not murdering bastards. It had been a complete accident. The kid had been in the wrong spot at the wrong time _fucking yes, he was_ and that's that. They'd known that the motherfucker had kids but they'd made sure that all of them – Tommy, Bobby and Kevin – were off playing or whatever it was affluent children of psychopathic murderers did. They'd searched the fucking house, they'd set up a watch, they'd done what they could.

They'd done what they could, goddammit it all. Except there was still an innocent child lying in a pool of blood with a perfect hole in his forehead. The golden coins on his eyes don't seem like enough and it's because it isn't, there won't ever be enough to make up for it.

Sometimes Murphy feels like he's fifteen minutes from hell. Fifteen minutes and one confession away and that's not a comfortable place for him to be, no how no way. It's not where they're supposed to be, either of them.

~~**~~

"Maybe…" Murphy's voice trails off before he whispers the rest, "Maybe this is God's way of telling us that we're on the wrong path, maybe we've taken it too far, Connor."

"Fuck's sake, Murph, what're you saying?" 

"'M saying that maybe God's not wanting us to be killing anymore. Maybe he's wanting us to do something else." 

"Oh yeah?" Connor laughs and Murphy wants to hit him. Hard. "What's He telling you He's wanting then? Wanting us to wait tables? Sing in a choir of angels?" 

As Connor flutters his arms like he was an effeminate angel, Murphy hits him upside the head. "I'm fucking serious, asshole. You ever think that maybe that kid was God's way of telling us that we've taken it too far? We've killed how many people, Connor? How many fucking people? When're we still the saints and not the sinners? When do we become those we hunt? Huh? You have an answer for that because I don't. I fucking well don't and I'm…"

"Da says…"

"Da says what? He says that we're supposed to just keep killing? He spent how long in prison? That what you want? Nameless and alone in prison? Chained up? 'M not wanting that for me or for you. Da can fuck himself but I'm not having us go to prison just cause Da says. _I_ say that God's saying something else and that should be good enough for you." Murphy wants to punch Connor, the wall, Da, _something_ because this is just too much. It's been too much for too long and sometimes Murphy feels about a hundred years old. Sometimes, when he's in the shower, his body curves in on itself like the old men back in Limerick that would sit in the park on their lazy arses. When it does, he swears the water runs red. Hell, most of the time, it's not just in his imagination; it runs red because he's literally bathed in the blood of the damned. 

He can't do this much longer. Sometimes he feels like he's breaking apart and that all that's left is Connor and if Connor's chasing after Da, then Connor's not there either. What'll happen to him if he doesn't have Connor? 

"Course I'm not wanting prison or any of that. Fuck's sake, Murph, fuck's sake, course it isn't." Connor pulls on Murphy until they're sitting next to each other on the side of the bed in their hotel room. The bedspread's some sort of cheap floral pattern that doesn't keep them warm. It matches the worn pattern of wallpaper, the one ugly print hanging above the television and the threadbare drapes. All in all, the place is a shithole but they're still sitting there next to each other. Murphy lets Connor sling his arm around him. 

"Then what're you saying? You want to keep on keeping on? Killing the damned is one thing but we killed a child, Connor, we're murderers. We're what we…" He searches his mind for a word and finally settles on, "hunt. We're sinners, too." 

"I know, Christ but I know." Connor hooks an arm over Murphy's shoulders and then rests his head against Murphy. For his part, Murphy turns and presses his lips and nose into Connor's hair. There's a scent there that's just so different. They use the same shampoo, the same soap, hell, most times, they use the same towel, and yet Connor smells so different from Murphy. It's a puzzle that pulls at Murphy even in the midst of their problems. 

"What're we going to do?" Murphy asks and his voice is so small that he immediately curses himself in his head – fluently and in six languages. He's such a fucking girl over this but Connor's the thinker, the planner, not Murph. Murph just shoots holes in the original plan. 

"Like you said, keep on keeping on, I guess." They go quiet, listening to each other breathe and Murphy's arm snakes along the bed and between their bodies to hold on to Connor's waist.

~~*~~

They don't talk further about Murphy's doubts, they just move on to the next sinner, the next mark. Murphy's questions don't leave him, even as they take turns watching the drug dealer's habits. According to Da's sources, the man sold drugs to kids at the middle school down the road. Preying on children is definitely worthy of their sort of swift justice but something feels off to him. He wants to go to Connor with it but Connor's always with da, always whispering about the man's evils and how he stands near the tall fence near the school with his long trench coat on even in the heat of winter.

They figure the man's armed with at least two guns just from the way the coat moves as he walks. Every morning, the man leaves his dilapidated row-house and walks down the street, trench coat flapping oddly, and then stands on the corner just outside the school. He stands there, people coming and going for most of the day. They're all rough about the edges but Murphy never sees a kid approach him though Da swears it happens. 

After three days of watching, they're fairly confident of the time the man leaves so in the morning, they wait until he's out of his house and just starting down the walk before they step out from behind their van and point guns at him. The man raises his arms to ward off, to plead his case but da's fast on the trigger and the man falls to the ground, blood pooling around his head where two bullets entered his skull. They kneel and pray, _And we shall flow a river forth unto thee_ , pennies rest over closed eyes _for thee, my Lord, for thee_ , and then they're away quick as anything. No one sees them.

It's only two weeks later and in another town that Murphy sees the paper reporting the story of an undercover cop shot dead while investigating drug deals happening near a school.

~~*~~

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been a week since my last confession." The familiar words don't help and Murphy's afraid that nothing, not even the priest's absolution and Murphy's penance, is going to help him with this. He pauses, unsure how to recite his sins and just what they are.

"Yes, my son," the priest answers and it's obvious that the man is waiting to hear the recitation. 

"This is difficult, Father, I'm not sure what I'm confessing to." They aren't the right words. "I mean, I know what I'm confessing but I don't know where to start. First time in my life that I'm not sure where to start and it's all just a confusing mix in my head." 

"Start at the beginning and let us go through the entire situation." The priest sounds sympathetic but sympathy only goes so far when you're confessing to murdering a child and a cop, a good cop from what Murphy's been able to find in the libraries and newspapers. 

"I used to think that God sent me on this mission, to help cleanse the Earth of the wicked. It's just that lately, I'm not at all sure that I'm not one of the wicked." 

"When you say 'cleanse', what do you mean?" 

"I'm one of the Saints, Father." 

"Oh," and it's obvious from how the priest says it that he knows exactly what saints Murphy's talking about. 

"I still believe in the mission, I can feel how right it is to do it but it's just that recently, I'm thinking that God's not talking to me any longer." Murphy pauses to rake a hand across his face and then up along his scalp, through his hair, to rub at the back of his neck. 

"What's happened?" 

"Information's not been right and people, good people, have gotten hurt." He's equivocating to a priest and the sin of it burns at him but he still can't tell a priest, not right now. 

"What do you want me to say?" The priest asks after a long pause. 

"I don't know," he finally admits. 

"Perhaps it's because you haven't resolved it in your head yet. I understand the need to reconcile yourself with God, especially with the mission you think He has given you. Now is the time to think things through, find out whether or not you are on the true path He has set out before you. If the information is not right, then look to the source." The priest pauses. "I cannot condone murder, of course. The taking of another's life is a sin and that is something that you must reconcile with God. If you do not feel that it is wrong, then you cannot atone and will face God with that on your soul." 

"I understand, Father." Murphy knows that just as he knows that God won't mind the ones like Yakavetta and the Russian mobsters. God had sent him and Connor that way and they had obeyed. But this cop? God wouldn't send them after a man that was helping. 

"I cannot give you penance for a sin you are unsure whether you have committed. When you are sure, come back and we'll talk."

"Yes, Father." Murphy crosses himself.

"Go in peace, then. In the name of the Father, of the Son and of the Holy Spirit," the priest intones and Murphy repeats. Together, they finish the familiar routine, "Amen." 

When Murphy leaves the confessional, he sees Connor kneeling in a nearby pew and he's quick to join his twin. Connor looks up, inscrutable expression on his face. Murphy's shocked that he can't make out what Connor's thinking because they've _always_ known what the other is thinking. It's like this – the sky is blue, the grass is green, the pope's in Rome, ma's in Ireland and Connor and Murphy are thinking about the same things. 

They pray together and, after they finish with thumb pressed to lips, Murphy can feel solid ground under his proverbial feet again. In tandem, they stand and make their way out of the church. On the steps, they light cigarettes and then start walking down the street, still not talking. Murphy doesn't know how to broach the subject. Does he just give Connor the newspaper or does he tell him first? They've never been on opposite sides of a conflict before and it's such an awkward feeling not to know how to navigate his way around Connor.

"Hungry?" Connor asks and Murphy nods. He'll tell Connor inside, he's horrible at keeping secrets from Connor. Hell, maybe that's one of the reasons that they're feeling awkward around one another. 

They wander into the pizza shop, ordering their usual and then sit to wait. Murphy unfolds the newspaper and slides it over in front of Connor. He watches as Connor raises an eyebrow and then starts to read, face transforming from amused to serious to shocked to pained. 

"Fuck," he whispers. 

"Yeah," Murphy answers. "What're we going to do?"

"You think da knew?" Murphy can tell that Connor doesn't want to believe that there was any way that da would know that the man had been a cop. Before Murphy can answer, Connor shakes his head and snarls, "Fuck's sake, Murph, what'm I asking? Course he fucking well knew, this entire thing was his deal. His information, his sources, his contract, his contacts. We're fucked, Murph, we're so fucked." 

"We need to talk to Smecker. Maybe he can help us." Murphy's had longer with it and that's about all that he can think to do. Connor's hand darts across the table and holds on to Murphy's. There's no need to say anything, Murphy knows what Connor's thinking. Instead, Murphy turns his hand and laces their fingers together, squeezing hard. 

When their order is announced, they both look at each other and nod.

~~*~~

"You lack the fortitude to do what is necessary," Da says and Murphy nods.

"That I do, da. I'm not willing to sell myself for money." 

"You think that's what I'm doing?" Da looks pissed and Murphy looks to Connor. 

"I'm thinking that you had us kill a cop, a man that was actually doing good work. You know that the FBI are after the killers for it? Path you're on, we'll become the ones we're hunting and I'd rather not." Murphy looks to Connor again. 

"Da, we can't travel the same way, we can't do what you do. We're not meant for it." Connor steps in and keeps the peace between them. 

"I knew you were weak. It's the reason I left when I did." Da glares and looks about the room and then gestures towards the door. "I have no sons." 

Murphy and Connor exchange a confused look and then start towards the door, one at a time so that they don't both have their backs to their da at the same time. Once they're outside, they walk to their shared room and gather up their things. 

They're across town in another hotel before they can stop and think about what just happened. Once inside, Murphy can't stop shaking from the fear and adrenaline and he clings to Connor, hugging tight and breathing in the familiar scent. He knows what this means, he knows that Connor chose him over his da. There'd been a small voice, a very tiny small voice, that had whispered to him in the dark of the night that Connor would choose their da because he had to know that Murphy would always take him back no matter what. 

"It's alright, Murphy, we're back to how we were, is all. Like it better this way," Connor whispers in Murphy's ear. Murphy nods against Connor's shoulder and breathes deep again. 

"Thought for sure he'd shoot us. Would've put money down on it." 

"That's why you're a shit gambler." They both laugh though it's more relief than mirth.

"Would've killed him if he'd pulled a gun." Murphy pulls away and looks at Connor, meaning more than he'd said. From the way that Connor nods, Murphy can tell that he knows exactly what Murphy's been trying to say. 

"Let's get some sleep. You first, just in case," Connor offers.

"Naw, not tired, too many nerves. You go ahead; I'll wake you in a bit." Murphy knows there's no fucking way possible he'll be able to sleep, not right now. Connor eventually nods and they both strip down to their underwear and crawl in to the cheap motel bed. Light's go off and, in the darkness, Murphy sits, propped up against the headboard while Connor curls around him. He's finally warm, no matter how cheap and thin the bedspread and blankets are. 

Gratitude swirls in him but he refuses to act on it. He's not a puppy and Connor sure as fuck ain't his master. Instead, he holds on to Connor, arm wrapped around shoulders. He keeps his gun tight in the other hand. Because it's dark and Connor's breath is deep and even, Murphy gives in to the urge to press his lips to Connor's head, kissing him. His hand rubs down, back up and then down Connor's arm. Otherwise, he remains motionless, keeping watching and feeling the warmth permeate him.

When his eyes start to droop, he wakes Connor. They shift so that Connor's the one propped up and Murphy's the one wrapped around. Murphy evens out his breath, falling asleep to Connor's scent surrounding him while the heartbeat under his ear drums him off to sleep.

~~*~~

They know Da's heading to New York City next so they head south, past Philadelphia until they decide on Baltimore. It's cold and Murphy misses the coat that he'd left in the car back with da but that can't be helped. As they walk along Inner Harbor, passing tourists and statues, they're quiet. Murphy pauses, lighting up a cigarette, and when Connor notices, five steps ahead, he quirks an eyebrow and then continues walking.

Murphy hurries to catch up, though he likes to think that it doesn't look like he's hurrying. When he's walking next to Connor, Murphy reaches out a hand and swats him, hard, across the back of his head. He takes off running, knowing that Connor's going to want to do the same back to him. 

They're laughing and carefree as they chase one another along the harbor. Still holding on to his cigarette, Murphy ducks in and out of people. Connor's faster but Murphy's more daring, willing to barely avoid cars or people to maintain the distance. Eventually, speed wins out and Connor takes a flying leap, pushing Murphy up against a building. They're laughing so hard that Murphy can't breathe. 

When he turns, his breath seizes but for a different reason. _He's beautiful_ , he thinks to himself and shakes the thought off. The need that twists and turns in his gut is harder to do away with. Connor pins him to the wall, hand twisted in his shirt, as they lean in close together, so close that Murphy can feel Connor's breath across his lips. They're close enough that, really, all Murphy needs to assuage this need is to tilt his head and lean just a breath in. One breath. It might as well be a mile. 

From what little of Connor's face he can see, Murphy guesses that Connor isn't thinking the same thing, that he doesn't have a fucking clue about the sinful thoughts that are brewing within Murphy. Hell, Murphy doesn't have a fucking clue where they're coming from. It can't be that they've spent the past four nights curled up together, sleeping in shifts and clinging to one another. It's not like they haven't done it once or twice before but they'd been children then. Maybe he's playing pretend but the whole reason they're sleeping together is because there are plenty of people looking for them, whether it's their da or the cops or the feds or the FBI or the CIA or any and all of the above. It's a safety issue that just so happens to lend a bit of comfort at the same time. 

Yes, it can't possibly be the way that Murphy has woken the past three mornings to feeling Connor pressed up against him, morning erection pressing into the cleft of his arse. It's not at all the way that Connor's breath ghosts along his neck or shoulder, teasing his hair and his senses. It's not even the way that Murphy turned this morning to look at Connor and found that Connor was completely awake and, therefore, had to be completely aware of how hard he was and just where that hardness was touching. 

"Fuck," Connor whispers as they stay where they are. 

"Huh?" Murphy has no idea why Connor's cursing. 

"Fuck," Connor repeats and then releases Murphy quickly. He stalks off and Murphy is slow to follow.

~~*~~

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," Murphy intones the familiar opening refrain of the ritual. "It's been a month since my last Confession."

There's silence on the other side of the wall and Murphy stumbles over his confession, "I helped to kill a man, Father. He was a good man, too, at least in the papers." 

"How did you assist?" The priest asks. 

"Helped my da and brother kill him. My brother and I, well, our da said the man was a murdering bastard, begging your pardon, and so we helped track him down and da and Con - my brother shot him. He wasn't a murderer, though. He was a good man." 

"Murder, regardless of the sins of the victim, is a mortal sin, you are aware of this?" 

"Yes, Father." He's well aware of it considering that his dreams vary from the fire of eternal damnation for killing the child and the cop to, worse, the visions of Connor in the shower, getting ready for bed, changing, wanting, needing, kissing, touching.

"I urge you to go to the police." 

"I can't," he says. 

"I see. Although I can urge you to speak to the police, I cannot make you. For your penance, however, I will ask that you encourage your father and brother to confess to the police. In addition, you must make lives better. These good works won't make up for the life that has been taken but it's a start." 

"Aye, Father." 

"Do you have anything else to confess?" 

"There are some things that I can't put into words." He hesitates to define the want. 

"I see, well then," the priest's voice trails off. 

"For all the sins that I cannot name and might have forgotten, I seek redemption and strength." It's the Catholic cop-out that he learned during his First Confession and it's stood him in good stead considering that he never did have to tell Father Boylan about the time he'd nicked a fifty from his mam because they'd both known that Father Boylan would've told mam. 

"Then go in peace. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit," the priest intones and Murphy repeats. "Amen." 

When Murphy steps out of the Confessional, his soul doesn't feel any lighter.

~~*~~

The phone rings and Murphy and Connor exchange a look. The caller ID doesn't give them any sort of hint as to who it could be. Then again, there are about three people that have the number and two of them are in the room right now. They continue to stare as the phone rings again.

"Go ahead." Connor gestures towards Murphy.

"Hello?" Murphy's hand is steady as he picks it up. 

"There's a man. Can't get anything to stick to him, it's like his shit doesn't stink. He's there if you're interested." It's Smecker. A swell of relief goes through Murphy. It's been two months since they left da and he's still expecting da to show up anytime. 

"Give me the details." Murphy asks and Smecker does, telling them about the long list of crimes going back over ten years. Murphy takes notes and shares them with Connor. By the end of the phone call, they have a decision to make. Once they hang up, Murphy turns to Connor, not at all sure what they should do. Do they start working for Smecker, taking care of the people slipping through the system? Or do they continue working by themselves? Smecker can't make any promises that they'll escape prosecution for any of the crimes though he has vowed to do his best to make sure they don't get caught. 

"Well?" Connor asks, shifting so that they're sitting next to one another, staring at the notes. 

"Won't promise anything but he'll work with us like we did with Yakavetta, make sure we don't get caught. Better than going it alone, isn't it?" Murphy turns to Connor and watches the grin spread across his face. 

"Better? This is great, Murphy!" Connor sounds beyond excited and then he presses his hand over Murphy's mouth and kisses it. Temptation swamps Murphy so that when Connor pulls back and lifts his hand, Murphy follows, pressing lip to lip. His hands embrace Connor's face, cupping cheeks as he sucks in the lower lip and nips it. 

Connor makes a noise in the back of his throat – Murphy can't tell what it's supposed to mean – and then his hand is entwined in Murphy's hair. Suddenly, the kiss goes from almost-chaste to needy and wanton, lips and tongues touching and dueling for control. It's just like their relationship's always been, both looking to be the leader and both knowing that, eventually, Connor's going to take over.

Hands explore, pressing against skin in ways that they've never done before. Things are moving so fast that, before Murphy can think, they break the kiss and tug at shirts then lunge back to continue the divinely sinful experience of kissing one another. Murphy can feel Connor's breath puff across his cheek as they switch from side to side, bumping noses and clacking teeth. When Connor pinches Murphy's nipple, Murphy rears back and barely stops the scream that wants to erupt.

"Fuck's sake, that hurts, asshole," he curses and then leans forward and bites Connor's nipple hard. 

"And that didn't?" Connor pushes at Murphy and then they're wrestling, rolling all over the bed, back and forth, so that they almost fall off too many times to count. When they're done, Murphy's flat on his back on the bed with Connor above him, hands pinned over his head while Connor grins down at him. He can feel how hard they both are but this momentary pause as they both try to catch their breath is just enough of a pause that Murphy can see the sin once more. 

"You're thinking it too, aren't you?" Connor's grin slips away as they stare. 

"It's wrong," he says but he can't help looking down their bodies to see how perfectly they fit, how their cocks are lined up and touching, _rubbing_ against one another inside their denim confines. Connor's gaze follows his and, in tandem, they press against one another. 

"We're already fucked, aren't we?" Connor asks before pressing down harder, grinding their erections together until Murphy thinks he's going to explode from the pressure. 

"Not fucked enough," Murphy answers with a cheeky leer. Connor's grin comes back and then they're kissing again. 

Nothing's better than the feel of Connor's skin against his hands, mouth, chest, stomach, cock. Nothing.

~~*~~

Murphy stands outside the Confessional and debates going in. He's been standing here for half an hour already. Connor's over in the pew, doing the Rosary and as much as Murphy wants to join him, there's just no way. Does he confess to incest or doesn't he? Were they really sinning? It's not a mortal sin, not if it's been around since Adam and Eve's children populated the Earth with one another, right?

God's speaking to them, He's been speaking to Murphy ever since they left Da. Maybe this … this… this _thing_ with Connor is another way that God's speaking to them. Maybe he's saying that they both deserve to find love and that who could love the other more than each other? Murphy looks from the door of the Confessional to Connor in the pew to the door and back to Connor. On the last look, Connor looks up and winks.

Just like that, Murphy knows that God won't, _can't_ mind that they've been touching each other in more-than-brotherly ways. It's just too perfect for it to be anything but God's plan. Murphy turns from the Confessional and joins Connor as they thumb through their rosaries.

~~*~~

The alley's dark and smells horrible, garbage and piss and unwashed bodies combining into a scent that makes Murphy's stomach roll. It's far worse than the meat packing plant or their flop ever thought of being. Then again, maybe it's not the scent making his stomach clench. Maybe it's the tension.

They're back in Boston and between Smecker and Greenly, they have enough information – verified and double-checked information – to tell them that this man deserves to die. Still, they haven't done this in a couple of months and the doubts after the last time still swirl. One last look at each other and then they pull the masks down over their faces and burst through the door, guns firing.


End file.
